“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” he retorted, sitting down uninvited, and staring at her a moment in cold inquiry.
She was not handsome, nay, she was ugly, and he was glad of it, being still of the innocent belief that the face is the clear index of the soul, and that a fair exterior cannot possibly cover a foul interior. Then, too, the fact that she was unprepossessing made the course he was contemplating so much the easier, since, however sincerely he might regret the artist, he could not in conscience pretend it possible that he should regret her face.
“You are doing well, my young friend,” laughed the Natzelhuber, “excellently well, ’pon my soul. Not so long ago a convent girl could not beat you in humility, and to-day you’ve cheek enough to lend even Agiropoulos a little.”
“Oh!” said Rudolph, lifting his eyebrows, and then changing his tone, suddenly, “but I did not mean to be rude.”
“Then what the devil do you mean?” the artist cried, lighting another cigarette, with almost maternal precautions against disturbing her cats. “Is that the way to come into a woman’s room, making yourself at home without being asked, and impertinently saying you want nothing?”
“If it comes to that, I might ask, is it habitual for morning callers to be received by their hostess lying on a sofa, nursing three cats, smoking, and to be asked what they wanted?”
“A very reasonable attitude if it suits me, and a very reasonable question. But since you are so susceptible and cantankerous, I’ll do you the grace to change both to suit you,” she said good-humoredly, removing her cats and placing them back on the sofa when she stood up; then seating herself in an arm-chair, she added:
“Now, what have you come for?”